


A Study in Sherlock

by Jojora



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Codependency, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mary and Rosie do not exist in this universe, Recreational Drug Use, Relapsing, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-19 08:14:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29747592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jojora/pseuds/Jojora
Summary: "John had never specialized in psychiatry, but he had to admit that he tried to diagnose Sherlock from time to time. None of the diagnoses really seemed to truly fit, though...John didn’t know how to label Sherlock, other than 'difficult.' Sherlock was a difficult person to have as a friend. A difficult person to work with. A difficult person to understand."A story about Sherlock struggling and John trying to get past his walls.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

John was angry. Working with Sherlock was like that sometimes. Well, actually, it was like that most of the time. 

There was no denying that Sherlock was brilliant. He had intelligence and logic skills that almost seemed superhuman. But for as smart as the man was, he severely lacked emotional intelligence, and that was often infuriating to John. 

John had never specialized in psychiatry, but he had to admit that he tried to diagnose Sherlock from time to time. None of the diagnoses really seemed to truly fit, though. He didn’t have narcissistic personality disorder because his ego was based in reality - he really was that special. He didn’t seem to fall on the autism spectrum because his lack of interpersonal skills seemed to stem from a choice rather than a symptom. It wasn’t that Sherlock didn’t understand social cues or emotional responses, quite the opposite, he understood people better than they understood themselves. He just often couldn’t be bothered with social niceties. And he wasn’t a sociopath, even if he sometimes claimed to be. No, Sherlock definitely had empathy and a full range of emotions, he just did everything in his power not to show them to anybody. 

John didn’t know how to label Sherlock, other than “difficult.” Sherlock was a difficult person to have as a friend. A difficult person to work with. A difficult person to understand.

And right now, John was angry.

He was angry because Sherlock had just walked out on an active case. John had never seen Sherlock just give up on a case like this. Usually it was the opposite, where he was being kicked off of a case and yet ignoring his orders to stay away. 

But here they were, in the middle of tracking a serial killer that was still actively killing, and Sherlock had just quit. Just walked out, acting completely indifferent to the fact that future lives were still at stake. 

John knew he wasn’t actually indifferent, of course. Sherlock was actually upset, because today was the 5th new body they had found since Sherlock took the case, and he still hadn’t figured it out. They had even known who the victim was going to be. They had a list of all of the future victims, actually, but they still didn’t manage to save her. So Sherlock was disappointed in himself. Because even Sherlock was not all-knowing, but he always seemed to think he should be. So the fact that he had failed to solve this one in time to save victim after victim after victim was unthinkable to him. Sure, there was always an unsolved case or a slip up from time to time. But five failures in a row - that was something John had never seen happen to Sherlock before. And after seeing the 5th body, Sherlock was taking it really hard. 

John had tried to talk to him about it, but Sherlock had refused to acknowledge that he was upset at all, and pretended he was simply no longer interested in the case. When John mentioned that they had to find this guy or even more lives would be lost, Sherlock acted like he couldn't care less. Like this case was just a puzzle he was no longer interested in and the lives behind it did not matter at all. 

Sherlock was often unpredictable, but it was a predictable unpredictability. This was different. This was very out of character for Sherlock, to give up when someone's life was still at stake. And it made John angry. 

So John stayed at the crime scene himself, to take in as much information as he could. He figured he would share it with Sherlock once Sherlock had some time to come to his senses. Still, John wasn’t Sherlock. He wasn’t going to be able to notice the things Sherlock would notice if he had stayed himself. He wouldn’t know which details were important and which random scent or house decoration would tell the victim’s whole life story. 

Sherlock needed to be here to figure this out. By skipping out on the crime scene, he was sabotaging his own ability to solve this case before the next victim. He was letting his hurt ego risk more lives and that was not okay. 

What Sherlock did next pissed John off even more. John took notes about what he could at the crime scene and then headed over to debrief with Lestrade. That was when his phone buzzed with a text from Sherlock.

“When do you think you’ll be home? I’d really like a cup of tea,” Sherlock texted flippantly, as though it was the most normal thing to request right now.

John rolled his eyes at the message. At least Sherlock was honest this time, which was unusual. Typically this type of request would come in the form of Sherlock insisting there was some sort of emergency and that John had to come home right away, just for him to get there and have Sherlock request that he open a window or hand him something from across the room. 

But apparently Sherlock was not just giving up on cases but also feeling less enthusiastic about harassing John too. The second part was fine by John. Sherlock could make his own cup of tea. John was busy still trying to save the lives that Sherlock apparently didn’t care about right now. 

Perhaps, John should have realized that the peculiarity was important. That the details are always the most important when it comes to Sherlock. But instead, he ignored the text.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock stared at his phone after sending the text. He watched the read receipt pop up, and waited to see if he would get a response. He wasn’t expecting one. He really just sent the text out of a sense of obligation. So that he could say that he sent it. 

As soon as Sherlock was certain that John was not going to respond, he tossed his phone onto the table and grabbed a glass of water before heading for his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

From there, he put the glass of water on his nightstand and laid down on the floor and scooted himself under his bed to get to the secret compartment under his floorboard. He felt a sense of comfort as soon as his hands closed around the pack of cigarettes in there, but that was not what he was after tonight. He set it aside and then groped around in there again until he found the small key. Pulling it out, he scooted even further forward and contorted upwards to unscrew the fake electrical outlet behind his bed, which housed another secret compartment. 

Sherlock felt that this was nearly foolproof for all the nosy people constantly snooping through his things. If they went under the bed, they would have to put weight on the intentionally loose floorboard before getting anywhere near the outlet. At that point, they would find the cigarettes and might possibly think they had been successful at finding his “stash” and maybe cigarettes were truly all he was hiding. But even if they didn’t and they found the key too, they would then divert their attention and start looking for something with a lock. When they found the lockbox it belonged to, which lived under another floorboard in his bathroom, all they would find would be another key that did not belong to anything at all, and they would drive themselves mad looking for the next lock. Nobody would realize the first key was really just meant to be used as a makeshift screwdriver for a space too narrow to fit a real screwdriver. Sherlock was actually quite proud of this system. 

Pulling the small pouch out of the wall compartment, he squeezed it with an overwhelming sense of urgency and crawled back out from under the bed. 

He sat on the edge of his bed and carefully laid out the pouch’s contents. A spoon, a syringe, a lighter, a tourniquet, several baggies of various substances, a pen, and a small notepad. Tearing a piece of paper from the notepad, he studied the baggies for a moment, deciding what he wanted to do. Then he carefully wrote his obligatory list for Mycroft and folded it into his pocket before getting to work. Sherlock didn’t really have any feelings about the list. At this point, it was just another part of the ritual. 

Eagerly injecting his concoction, he closed his eyes as he savored the initial rush of the drugs flooding his bloodstream. 

Then he carefully packed everything back up and crawled back under the bed to put everything back in its place, always careful to put everything away as the very first thing so that he did not accidentally reveal his secrets if he ended up dozing off later. 

After that, he laid flat on his bed, closing his eyes and letting himself drift into the depths of his high.


	3. Chapter 3

John finally arrived home several hours after receiving Sherlock’s text. If he was being honest, it was possible he intentionally delayed returning to the flat and that he had been avoiding Sherlock. He was still pretty angry with him. But he knew that eventually he needed to go home and that he had to try to convince Sherlock to come back to the case. It was urgent, there were still more victims on the list that they had the opportunity to save. 

However, when he got back to their shared residence, Sherlock was not in the common area and his bedroom door was shut. John was angry enough that he was willing to encroach on the man’s privacy, so he walked over and opened the door, peering in. Sherlock was asleep in bed, even though it was only a little past 7.

That annoyed John even more, but he chose to let the man rest. After all, it had been a difficult day. Maybe some sleep and a reset was what was needed and tomorrow he would come to his senses. 

So John made himself dinner, had a bath, and went to bed himself. 

When he woke the next morning and came out into the common area, Sherlock was in the kitchen, intently focused on one of his odd experiments. 

“Morning,” John greeted as he walked over to the kitchen counter. “Shall I make us some coffee?” He made a point to be friendly, hoping Sherlock might be in a better mood and willing to engage with him about the case. 

But Sherlock didn’t even look up. “None for me, thank you,” he replied dully as he adjusted a dial on his microscope. 

John decided to take a slightly more direct approach. “Guess what they found at the crime scene yesterday?” 

“I’d rather not,” Sherlock replied, suddenly getting up from his spot and walking out of the kitchen. 

John clenched his jaw in frustration at the abrupt departure and obvious avoidance. He followed Sherlock into the living room. 

“Since when do you ever back down from a case?” he pressed. 

“I’m on holiday,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly as he sat in his chair. 

John scoffed. “On holiday?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied calmly. “It’s where people take a pause on going to work to enjoy some personal time.” 

“Yes, I know what it means,” John retorted, crossing his arms across his chest. “I’m just a little confused as to how you can go on holiday while in the middle of trying to save these people’s lives.” 

“Am I not entitled to personal days from a job I do not even get paid for?” Sherlock asked, his tone still completely neutral.

“Sherlock, more people are going to die if we don’t find the killer,” John pushed back, shocked at the complete apathy that Sherlock was showing towards that particular detail.

But then, like a switch had flipped, Sherlock’s demeanor changed.

“I am not the one killing these people, John!” he snapped, standing up from his chair again, forcefully enough that the chair actually slid back a couple of inches.

John’s jaw dropped slightly. He had obviously hit a nerve, but he was not used to Sherlock being so reactive. Clearly Sherlock was really upset about this and maybe guilting him when he was already beating himself up was the wrong approach. 

“You’re right,” John said slowly, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “I didn’t mean to imply that. None of this is your fault.”

Sherlock didn’t appear to be listening, though, he was already walking away and muttering something to himself. He seemed agitated, and now John was starting to get worried. He knew Sherlock had been upset last night, but it was rare for Sherlock to let those emotions truly come to the surface. That meant this was really bothering him on a level deeper than John had previously realized.

“Sherlock?” John said gently. “Don’t walk away right now. Let’s just talk about this.” 

Sherlock turned on his heel at the request, and when he did, John saw a quiet fury behind his eyes that made his stomach sink. He couldn’t be sure, but suddenly he had a suspicion and a new worry. After all, he had previously only ever seen this kind of rage within Sherlock when Sherlock was high. 

But Sherlock had been clean for a while now, or at least, John thought he had. Had this case triggered him to use? Or had he been using already and maybe that’s why he was struggling so much with the case? John wasn’t sure, it was always hard to tell with Sherlock. There were definitely times where he had hidden a relapse well until it finally spiraled out of control. John had sometimes had full conversations with Sherlock where he didn’t even realize Sherlock was high until later. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock was high now, maybe he was just truly this troubled and mentally on edge. Maybe he was finally just unraveling after all this time of always keeping everything bottled up.

EIther way, now was not the time to question it, because Sherlock looked like he was one confrontation away from a full-blown breakdown.

“I think you would actually be well-advised to let me walk away, John,” Sherlock seethed.

John didn’t respond with anything other than a relenting nod. Sherlock was not in a state of mind where anything John said would matter anyway and he did not want to push Sherlock over the edge when his behavior was already so erratic. He sighed as Sherlock’s bedroom door slammed shut. If his suspicion was right, he didn’t want to think about what Sherlock might be doing in there now.

John’s first instinct was to call Mycroft, but he decided against it. He didn’t want to keep doing this with Sherlock. He wanted to break past this wall this time, and maybe that meant doing something differently. Maybe that meant truly connecting with Sherlock instead of calling in reinforcements to control him. So instead, John took a breath and went back to the kitchen to finish making his coffee. He sat in his chair and drank it slowly, taking his time to give Sherlock a chance to either calm down or, if he was using, to sedate himself.

As he waited, John’s phone rang - a call from Lestrade.

“Any luck getting Sherlock back onto the case?” Lestrade asked when John answered the phone. 

“No, actually, I’m starting to think it’s best if he sits this one out,” John answered cryptically, staring at the closed bedroom door. 

Lestrade didn’t need to know the details to read between the lines. Just like that, Sherlock was off the case. 

Once John had finished his coffee, he washed and dried the cup. By now it had been about an hour and a half since Sherlock had stormed off. John headed over to Sherlock’s room and cautiously knocked. There was no response. 

So he opened the door and peered inside, thinking that if Sherlock had been using, it might be necessary to check on Sherlock’s vitals. Instead, he found Sherlock awake and sitting at the foot of his bed, staring at the wall in front of him. He looked tired and haggard, with none of the composure he had been putting on this morning but also none of the anger that had followed. He just looked defeated. 

“Since you’re going to impose yourself anyway, I suppose this is the point where I am supposed to invite you into the room,” Sherlock said, acknowledging John’s presence even though his gaze remained on the wall. 

John raised his eyebrows at the passive-aggressive invitation, but stepped inside and sat down next to Sherlock.

Sherlock silently reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out two pieces of paper, handing them to John. John didn’t even have to look to know what they were, a silent confession from Sherlock and an explanation for the behavior John had just witnessed.

John looked down at the lists and closed his eyes sadly at how reckless Sherlock could be with his own life sometimes. 

Sherlock spoke again, but he still wasn’t looking at John. “I imagine Mycroft is already on his way?” 

John shook his head. “I haven’t called him. Do you want me to?” 

Sherlock nearly chuckled at the absurd question. “Certainly not.” 

John smiled, but quickly his mood turned somber again. “I wish you would talk to me, Sherlock. Or if not me, someone. I wish you would reach out to your friends when things get rough instead of just sinking into self-destruction.” 

Sherlock finally turned to look at John, his face ragged but a stubbornness to his response. “I did reach out.”

“You did? To who?” John asked, genuinely shocked to hear that. 

“To you,” Sherlock answered as though the answer was obvious. 

John shook his head. “No, you didn’t,” he argued. “You just shut down. You wouldn’t even talk with me at the crime scene. You just left!” 

“I texted you,” Sherlock argued back. 

John frowned. “You told me you wanted tea, that’s hardly reaching out. How was I supposed to know you were on the verge of a relapse?” 

Sherlock looked slightly amused now, like John was missing something obvious. Meanwhile, John felt exasperated at the fact that Sherlock seemed to think John was supposed to read his mind. But then something clicked in John’s thoughts.

“You mean to tell me that all those times that you had me running across town to get here for seemingly no reason, that that was because you just needed a friend?” John asked.

“Well you didn’t really think that fetching my water from the kitchen was the crisis, did you?” Sherlock asked. 

“No, I thought you were just screwing with me,” John replied honestly.

Sherlock shook his head, clearly disappointed. “Really Watson, have I taught you nothing about deduction in all these years? Don’t you even remember the first time?” 

“Yeah, you made me think it was an emergency so I raced across the city just for you to tell me you wanted to borrow my phone to send a text.” 

“And what was I wearing when you got here?” Sherlock asked like he was teaching a child a math problem. 

“What were you wearing? How the hell am I supposed to remember what… oh.” John remembered now. “Three nicotine patches.” 

Sherlock nodded. “Now, tell me Watson, why do you think a person might be compelled to put on three nicotine patches? What does that tell you about their state of mind?” he asked.

John just closed his eyes and shook his head sadly. “Oh Sherlock,” he sighed. “You know, not everyone speaks Sherlockese fluently. Sometimes you have to communicate your feelings with words.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “I tell you that there’s a crisis and that I need you to come home at once. How much more clearly am I supposed to communicate it?” 

John almost laughed at the fact that this was Sherlock’s idea of reaching out for emotional support, but he realized this was a lesson to give Sherlock at a later time, when he didn’t look like he desperately wanted to crawl out of his own skin from what John now knew was obvious drug withdrawal. 

“We should get some food in you,” John said instead. 

Sherlock didn’t respond, he just turned to look at the wall again. John took that to mean that he was at least not refusing food, so he stood up to go and make something. But when he got to the bedroom door, he paused and looked back at Sherlock.

“Last night, you didn’t say that it was a crisis,” John said slowly. “Just that you wanted tea.” 

An undecipherable emotion flashed across Sherlock’s face for a second, and then it was gone. He didn’t reply. 

John didn’t need him to, he understood. Sherlock had downplayed his message on purpose because this time around, Sherlock had not really been trying. He had not wanted to be helped. 

John’s heart broke slightly at that realization. Sherlock had obviously been in a really bad place and John had completely missed it. He hadn’t noticed because he had been too absorbed in the case and in his own frustration with Sherlock. But he should have noticed the details. The peculiarities. The small things that were big things when it came to Sherlock Holmes.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock didn’t seem interested in the food John prepared. In fact, when John got back to the bedroom, Sherlock was curled up on his bed, looking absolutely dreadful. John rushed over to him, setting the tray down on the nightstand and kneeling down to check on him. 

“Get off me,” Sherlock huffed, pulling his wrist away as John tried to check his pulse. 

“Sherlock, please. I am not calling Mycroft but that means you have to at least let me check your pulse,” John insisted. 

He didn’t think his half-plea and half-threat would work, but to his surprise, Sherlock held his hand back out, though he shot John a disapproving look.

“Pulse is regular,” John remarked. 

“I could have told you that,” Sherlock retorted, pulling his arm back in and curling up tighter on the bed. 

“Forgive me for not trusting the person currently going through heroin withdrawal,” John muttered to himself. 

Sherlock scoffed. “I’m not in withdrawal.”

“Tell me, how long has this been going then?” John asked, choosing not to point out the very obvious signs of withdrawal. It wasn’t an argument worth having.

Sherlock averted his gaze, clearly not wanting to talk about his drug use any further than what he had already disclosed. 

“Then tell me why?” John asked instead when it became clear he was not going to get an answer. 

Sherlock just closed his eyes and ignored the question again. That was odd. John wasn’t expecting any deep emotional revelations from Sherlock, but Sherlock always had a reason to give for using, even if it was always a dumb excuse like saying it was “for a case.” 

“Sherlock,” John pressed. 

Clearly annoyed, Sherlock opened his eyes again. “John, I’d very much like to sleep, so if you don’t mind.” 

“Fine,” John replied as he stood up to leave. “But your door stays open.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “There’s nothing in here.” 

John didn’t believe him for a second. “It stays open,” he repeated.

* * *

Sherlock slept for most of the day. John went back through his text messages from Sherlock to see if there had been other signs that he had missed. He found several messages that could have potentially been similar missed cries for help, but it was hard to tell. John could not figure out how long Sherlock had been using. John was so used to Sherlock being Sherlock that he didn’t know when the abnormal became truly abnormal. 

After becoming frustrated with his inability to pinpoint the shift, John gave up. He spent the rest of the day in the living room reading a book and keeping an eye on Sherlock’s bedroom door. He refused to leave Sherlock alone in the flat for even a second right now. 

When Sherlock did wake up, he didn’t look much better than he had when he went to sleep. John watched him drag himself out of his bedroom and into the bathroom. 

“Door stays open!” John called at him, but Sherlock ignored him, closing the bathroom door somewhat forcefully behind him. 

John hesitated for a moment, before deciding it was probably fine. He would still allow Sherlock to have a bit of privacy in the bathroom.

And he was actually a bit relieved when he heard the sounds of Sherlock getting sick in the toilet. If he was vomiting, at least that meant he wasn’t shooting up.

But after the retching ended, the silence dragged on for longer than John was comfortable. Eventually he decided it had been too long. He put down his book and stood up, walking towards the bathroom. 

“Sherlock?” he asked through the closed bathroom door. 

No response. 

“Sherlock, say something or I am coming in,” John warned. 

“I’m still alive,” Sherlock muttered reluctantly in response.

John sighed. That was a relief. But not much of one. What was he doing in there?

“Are you planning on coming out anytime soon?” John asked. 

No response. 

John waited another moment, but he was uncomfortable with the silence and was getting ready to open the door. Then, all of a sudden, it opened from the other end and Sherlock walked out. He walked right past John and towards the kitchen. He still looked run down, and at first glance, he didn’t appear to have used anything new. Not that John fully trusted his own ability to determine that. 

“Do you intend to just follow me everywhere I go to make sure I don’t do any drugs?” Sherlock asked flatly, not even turning around to look at John as he filled himself a glass of water. 

“Yes,” John answered honestly. 

“Suit yourself,” Sherlock replied, heading back to his bedroom and seemingly unbothered by the threat. Thankfully, he left the door open.


End file.
